Whispers Poem by michael mpofu

In the miasma of a contorted ether,

Groaning in grumbles and grief,

A howling cold breeze, the harmony of motion,

Giving the tree a sway, man a shudder,

Amplified voices of the strong and shameless

This last plate till then,

Generously giving the retained kilojoules,

For the walk of hope and dreams,

Though pale and shuttered, don’t tell.

Obscene deeds we all abhorred

Nevertheless, for now unearth those of the grey haired

Maybe shame will rain on them.

Our presence in sacred streets makes the difference

Strength in numbers, we believe

Fail to count and feel your sit shake.

The fabric you value, the textile of identity, we lift up

Burn it, for the value is not in us

Grant more time, they tear you down.

Send the poisoned, send the biased

Deep down we share the pain,

In their eyes, we see innocence,

As they starve us the gift of nature.

Ruthless they try to appear,

Troubling the mob and themselves,

Once, the pointer pulls the trigger.

Murmurs we hear, but no one is talking

Shadows we see, yet none is around

Motivated we are by each loss

Fear subsided by faith

And the mass grave we fill,

Whispers I hear